04-Mothers of the Disappeared Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  The A.J. McNee Mysteries by Russel D. McLean

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  2011

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Notes and Acknowledgements

  The A.J. McNee Mysteries by Russel D. McLean

  THE GOOD SON

  THE LOST SISTER

  FATHER CONFESSOR

  MOTHERS OF THE DISAPPEARED *

  * available from Severn House

  MOTHERS OF THE DISAPPEARED

  A J. McNee Mystery

  Russel D. McLean

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2014 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2014 by Russel D. McLean

  The right of Russel D. McLean to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  McLean, Russel D. author.

  Mothers of the disappeared.

  1. McNee, J. (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 2. Dundee

  (Scotland)–Fiction. 3. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title

  823.9’2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-07278-8410-7 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-536-9 (ePub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This eBook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  For Lesley

  Literary Critic. Doctor of Joyce. Drinker of Prosecco.

  With love.

  (And wine)

  (And chocolate)

  2011

  ‘Five years,’ the old bugger says. ‘Five years since I offered you the chance to come and work with me.’

  ‘Aye,’ I say, ‘and I’m here now.’ Playing it cool. This is how it is. Neither of us can change anything.

  He’s not buying it. Why would he? This isn’t the usual dance. We’re learning new moves here, and he’s not convinced about the tempo.

  ‘Things have changed, then? The events of the last few weeks, perhaps?’

  ‘A lot of things changed,’ I say. ‘But the last two years … Maybe I made a few wrong choices.’

  He nods. ‘I understand. You’ve lost a lot. Your friends. Your woman. Your reputation. And now … you understand … don’t you? Finally.’

  He sees the way his words sting. But he doesn’t gloat. We’re walking a fine line here. Like close friends tipping over into lovers; one wrong move and everything we’ve worked towards is irrevocably destroyed.

  The simile, of course, is a little on the nose.

  ‘You need to prove to me that you’re serious.’ He talks slowly. Calmly. His eyes refuse to leave mine. Searching for any sign of deception.

  I meet his gaze. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘Information. That’s all. You can get me some information, can’t you? Isn’t that what you do for people all the time?’

  ‘I guess so. What kind of information?’

  He leans forward. ‘Are you an artistic man, Mr McNee? Do you like taking photographs?’

  ‘Can’t say it’s a passionate hobby.’ I always said I’d never stoop to the peeping Tom jobs. But that was another time. Another life. Before everything changed.

  He nods. ‘Just need you to watch an address for me. A hotel room.’

  He waits for a moment. Perhaps thinking I’ll ask for more detail. This is all part of the test. He needs to know how many of my principles I’m willing to abandon for him.

  After he’s sure I’m not going to say anything, he writes down an address for me. Passes the scrap of paper across the desk. I read it, try not to smile.

  He knows what he’s doing, the wily old shite-bag. He’s been waiting for this moment.

  Who can blame him?

  This is his tipping point. This is the moment when he finally owns me.

  He’s always talked like I’m the son he never had. Truth is, he just wants power over me. Same as with everyone he meets. David Burns wants you to know that he’s the man in charge. That he owns you. Owns everyone you know.

  ‘Well?’ he says.

  I don’t hesitate this time. ‘Long as you pay up front.’

  Can he see what I’m really feeling?

  ‘Is cash acceptable?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘For a job like this.’

  I stand and offer my hand. He stands, too, and when we shake, he continues to lock his eyes on to mine.

  When I leave the room, I feel different.

  Like someone just paid for my soul.

  ONE

  I stared at the letter.

  Read it again.

  Again.

  Dear Mr McNee

  In light of recent charges brought against your agency, the Association of British Investigators has been forced to consider your current active status. Until such time as a full investigation can be conducted, your membership will be suspended …

  I placed the letter back on the desk, stood up, crossed the floor of the office to the window. Looked out across to the DSS building, beyond to the rear of the Overgate Shopping Centre. Sandstone and steel, a far cry from its heyday as a concrete monstrosity inflicted on the city during the sixties, when the council had proceeded to destroy any vestige of character the city may have possessed. It had long been a symbol of the new Dundee; a city looking to the future rather than remembering its past.

  I sucked in a
heavy breath, let it go. Slow. Like a smoker’s last desperate gasp on his final fag-end.

  The word suspended echoed in my head.

  Someone laughed.

  Of course, it took a moment before I realized it was me.

  I called on Lindsay. At his house.

  Bad idea?

  Maybe. But things had changed between us since he came out of the coma. We weren’t friends. Never would be. But we’d found an uneasy alliance in shared experience.

  And shared betrayal.

  As always, answering the door, he didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything. Just stepped back to allow me inside.

  Maybe twenty seconds before his opening gambit: ‘How long did it take you to put away the crutches?’

  ‘I still have them,’ I said. ‘Just in case.’

  Five years earlier, I’d been involved in a car accident. Wound up with a limp that the doctors said had no real physical cause.

  These days, I limped less. And life was good. So go figure if there was a connection.

  We went through to the sitting room, Lindsay taking the lead, his gait awkward, cane tap-tapping an off-beat rhythm on the hardwood floors.

  The TV was on BBC daytime; middle-class timewasters searching for bargains at a car-boot sale. Lindsay said, ‘Better than morphine.’

  Sure, and without the entertainment value.

  It was strange, not to hear him swear. Like he was the same man, but not quite. Until recently, I’d known next to nothing about who DCI George Lindsay was off the job.

  He had a six-year-old son, and didn’t want the lad to grow up hearing daddy swear.

  Double standards?

  We all have them. And if you can’t swear when you’re overseeing a brutal murder investigation, then God only knows when you can.

  Lindsay and I sat across from each other. I took the sofa. He took a faux-leather armchair. Manoeuvred down awkwardly. The plastic leather creaked.

  I pretended not to notice. ‘Have you heard from her?’

  He shook his head. ‘Thought she’d contact you. You know. Considering.’

  ‘Nothing since she left.’

  Susan and I had a strange relationship, made worse when she lied to protect a teenage girl who murdered a man – a monster – in self-defence. The secret had brought us together before it eventually pushed us further apart than we had ever been.

  There was a physics lesson in there, I was sure of that.

  Susan decided to go travelling. Told me she wanted to ‘find herself’.

  I didn’t know what it meant then, and over six months later I wasn’t any more clued-in. Except that whatever she was doing, she wasn’t saying much about it beyond the occasional postcard and awkward email.

  Now the only person I had left to talk to was Lindsay.

  Aye, well, laugh it up. We were, after all, the best of enemies. Even when we’d been on the force, the antagonism had got the better of our professional instincts more than once.

  But then he took a beating while trying to help me uncover the truth behind the death of Susan’s father. The attack severe enough to put him in a coma. During those weeks, the ones that turned into months before he finally decided to come back to the world, I found myself in the habit of visiting his bedside and unburdening myself.

  A confessional without the religious trappings.

  I wonder if he heard me during those weeks. Since he woke up, neither of us have talked about it. But something had definitely changed between us.

  Why I found myself in his front room at half nine on a Tuesday morning.

  I told him about the letter. About the reason it had been sent.

  ‘You shouldn’t be talking to me about that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He didn’t say anything. I took his meaning. This was trouble coming home to roost. Maybe for both of us.

  Four years earlier, I had killed a man. Shot him in the chest one rainy night in the centre of the Necropolis graveyard out to the west end of the city.

  Self-defence.

  The man had been a killer himself. Two days earlier he had killed a woman on the run from her gangster husband. And that evening, he’d been looking to take me out.

  I always wondered whether Lindsay – the investigating officer on the case – truly believed the story I sold him, or if he had chosen to fudge the details for his own inscrutable reasons, letting me off the hook, justifying my actions on that rain-soaked evening.

  Four years later, someone was raising doubts as to the official account of what happened. Questioning not just my story but the investigation into the events.

  It wasn’t Lindsay. He’d be throwing away his own reputation if he raised questions about that night. Besides, if he’d wanted to lock me up and throw away the key, he’d have done it there and then. Maybe things would have been better if he had.

  We were quiet for a while. Lindsay was the one who broke the silence, asking, ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘Nothing I can do.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Except wait.’

  He nodded. ‘Welcome to my world.’

  He was awaiting the results of a physical. Nearly eleven months of leave, he wanted back on the job, even if he was just driving a desk. But they were making him jump through hoops. Almost literally. Police work requires a certain degree of fitness, and given what happened to him, no one was sure that he would ever return to that level. He hated the tests, and even worse hated the possibility that he might not be allowed back.

  I’d joked that he could go private. He’d almost knocked my block off.

  We sat together for almost an hour, not saying much. Mostly exchanging half-hearted observations about the re-opening of the investigation and why anyone would start to look into it now. But neither of us had any answers, and the truth was that after four years we just wanted to forget it all, and move on with our lives.

  I’d done enough standing still to last a lifetime.

  When I got up to leave, he said, ‘I stand by the report, you know. Back it all the way.’

  I nodded to indicate that I understood.

  And then I left.

  About as close to friends as we could be.

  I was suspended from the ABI, but the law didn’t require that I shut down my business. The ABI has been working with the Government for years to legalize the profession, but the inevitable red tape has held up many attempts to organize our merry band into something approaching a cohesive professional body.

  So I could work under the radar if I wanted. Say I was doing favours for friends. That kind of thing.

  I had myself a part-time security gig with a bunch of other eyes from Fife, providing protection for a top-level golf tournament in St Andrews. Rich assholes, richer movie stars, tourists looking to get too close, as though the success might rub off on them.

  I drove over the road bridge, slipped on sunglasses as the day brightened. It was the arse-end of summer, the weather unpredictable. For the best part of June and July the heat had been on, and even on dark days, you could see the red remnants of the Scottish suntan among the populace who’d taken advantage of the sun. We’re pathetic that way. Scottish skin sizzles easy, and yet the first sign of a heatwave, we’re out there, topless, not even bothering with the weakest of suncream.

  Eejits.

  I pulled up outside the Old Course Hotel, right next to Andy McDowell’s gleaming BMW. He was leaning on the bonnet, waiting for me. Dressed all in black: a pasty Johnny Cash. Tipped his shades at me as I climbed out.

  ‘We need to talk, McNee.’

  ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘I don’t like to do this—’

  I knew what he was going to say. Didn’t let him finish, just raised a hand.

  ‘Come on, man,’ he said. ‘Don’t be like that.’

  I’d worked with Andy on and off since I got into the investigation game. Originally from Glasgow, he formed McDowell Associates after moving to the east coast to indulge his
passion for golf. He’d probably have preferred to move to Tennessee to indulge his passion for Americana, but sometimes in life you have to compromise. His connections to the golf world allowed him access to cake-walk security details like The Open. And he liked to work with people he knew.

  He wouldn’t take a decision like letting someone go without giving it a great deal of consideration. On all sides.

  Didn’t make me feel any better, though.

  ‘I have policies,’ he said. ‘Everyone ABI certified and—’

  ‘Do you believe I did it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re supposed to have done,’ he said. ‘Just that you’re off the register. But I’m sure that—’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘There’s a severance in the contract,’ he said. ‘You saw it. It’s generous enough.’ Aye, generous enough, he didn’t mind being an arsehole.

  ‘Doesn’t really help.’ It wasn’t about the money. He knew that, probably understood. And all I was doing now was making this tough on him.

  ‘Maybe you should take some time off while—’

  ‘Would you?’

  He didn’t say anything.

  I walked past him, stared out across the course and at the ocean. The wind was low, but you could still see the foam of breakers forming as the water lapped into the coastline.

  ‘You want to talk about it?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘How about a beer?’

  I looked at my watch. ‘It’s only just gone twelve.’

  ‘Beer and lunch.’

  ‘You’ve got work.’

  ‘I’ve got people working.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I was supposed to be one of them.’ I moved back to the car, started to climb in.

  Andy placed his hand on top of the open door before I had a chance to close it. ‘If you were in trouble, you’d ask for help, right?’

  I reached up and pushed his hand away before closing the door. He stayed where he was as I reversed, and then pulled out.

  Looking in the rear-view, I saw him watch me. His shades hid what he was thinking.

  But I could guess.

  TWO

  Back at the office, I stewed.

  Windows closed. Door locked. In my chair, staring at piles of looming paperwork. Considering just chucking everything out of the window.